The Clothes That Got Away

Today I’m presenting a grab bag of outfits and anecdotes that I couldn’t quite make into full-fledged entries. Sometimes I get a hot tip on a CTGML, but I can’t gather all the information I need for a coherent narrative. For example:

— An old college friend told me she had been having “a torrid, unconsummated affair with a married man,” and that she would e-mail me the details of how it finally got consummated. This promised to be our most sensational entry ever! Of course she never got around to it, and then she avoided me when I tried to harass her on Facebook chat. What’s up with that?

— Yet another D.C. resident, “Phoebe,” told me about a guy who picked her up at The Fox & Hounds who was really into her gray corduroy pants. I don’t know any of the details of this, including who the guy was and what he said to her, because I wrote them down on a scrap of old newspaper, then immediately lost it. Apparently, he made some remark to the effect that he loved corduroy because it reminded him of his youth in the 70’s, a time when he was first starting to notice girls and get in touch with his sexuality. It’s unclear whether this person is just an outlier, or if he’s representative of a whole generation of corduroy-loving males. In case anyone’s interested, the guy was about 35 when Phoebe encountered him 5 years ago, so this (possibly fictive) cohort would now be around 40. However, I think you could adapt the same idea to any age group — just figure out what styles were ubiquitious when your target was 12, then wear some version of that. (Although even this principle may not be correct; there seems to be something about corduroy that makes it so people who like it are just fanatical about it. It’s like the Kevin Smith of textiles.)

— Last night I was at a bar with some friends, and we got talking to this guy who said he had gotten laid twice in two weeks while wearing the same Jack Daniel’s t-shirt. This seemed promising, so I asked to hear more. “Todd Pretzel,” as my notes strangely identify him, is a tile-layer from Boston who was approached by an Italian woman while doing something-or-other in Beverly Hills. I never really got the full story — he was oddly reticent, and disposed to skip over things that seemed important. I also missed some of what he did say, because I’m very bad at hearing over background noise. It’s a hereditary trait. I asked him to speak up but he wouldn’t, prompting me to wail disconsolately “I’m hearing-impaired!” Maybe he just didn’t want to be overheard by Evadne, Bjorn, and Bjorn’s girlfriend, who were sitting right there, but I didn’t think of this at the time.

Finally, though, it came clear why he was being so weird about the story: It wasn’t just him who fucked the Italian woman, but his guy friend too, at the same time. One of them fucked her from behind while she sucked the other one’s dick. Bjorn says this maneuver is called a “pig roast.” T. Pretzel seemed very uncomfortable about having done this and said everyone involved was motivated by “desperation.” I took a bunch of notes on a napkin, but not only are they incomplete, they are written in a ludicrously near-incomprehensible scrawl. Phrases emerge from the chaos such as “JD & coke,” “shots,” “just drinkin’,” “walked —> bar,” “smack,” “nudist,” “itwasraunchy,” and “I do tile.” If you are a straight guy, and you and your friend teamed up on a woman, please don’t get all angsty; it doesn’t necessarily make you gay.

Finally, an ensemble you will never see in the pages of Lucky Magazine: “My Foolproof 70’s Pig-Roast Outfit (for Fall).”